“Some man’s mistress, is that what you were going to say?”
Her twin met her gaze, Violet’s sad but serious. “Accept your fate, Jeannette, and do your best to be happy. Once you are husband and wife, I think you may be surprised how well you and Mr. O’Brien get on.”
“What if we don’t?” Jeannette’s insides squeezed uncomfortably at the prospect. Truly, she and Darragh knew little about each other and had even less in common. What if those differences grew more pronounced instead of less once they found themselves shackled together for a lifetime?
She repeated her qualms aloud to her sister.
A gentle smile curved Violet’s lips. “Ah, but you have genuine passion between you, something of which a great many couples cannot boast, especially those of our class. And there is the way he looks at you, when he thinks you do not notice.”
“And how is that?” Jeannette asked, unable to resist the inquiry.
“With the longing and intensity of a man gazing upon a rare and cherished prize. Perhaps he isn’t who you would have chosen, but he is the man you will have. Give him a chance. Give your union a chance and let him make you happy.”
“Likely Darragh and I shall drive each other to distraction, and I shall find myself more miserable than I have ever been in my whole life.”
Violet sighed. “I pray you will find otherwise. But if, after a time, you discover yourself desolate beyond all hope, know that you may always come to me. We have had hard words and bad feelings between us in the past, but you are my sister. I care, even if you do make me want to throttle you sometimes.”
Jeannette met her twin’s gaze with an identical one of her own, deeply touched. Giving in to impulse, she hugged Violet to her and dusted a quick kiss over her twin’s cheek, something she hadn’t done since they were children.
In obvious surprise, Violet hesitated for a scant second before returning her embrace, rounded belly and all.
The moment soon over, they parted.
Violet smoothed a hand over her full green skirt. “Shall I go out and let everyone know you are ready? Five minutes, shall we say?”
A new lump of nerves formed in Jeannette’s chest. Doing her best to breathe past it, she gave a nod.
Violet nodded back, then quietly crossed to let herself out the door.
Standing motionless, Jeannette became aware of her pulse thundering unsteadily as her panic spiked higher. Five minutes and the ceremony would begin. Fifteen minutes and she would be Mrs. Darragh O’Brien. To have and to hold, to love, honor, cherish and obey until death do them part.
She pressed a palm flat against her chest and tried to calm her raging nerves. Marriage to O’Brien wouldn’t be so bad. At least he was handsome and would presumably bring her pleasure in bed.
What did it matter if he came from a different world, a separate social sphere than her own? Why worry that he would be carrying her off into the wilds of Ireland, away from everyone and everything she’d ever known? Or be upset that she might never see London again, and that if she did, her friends might shun her for no longer rightfully belonging inside their circle?
She’d planned to marry a rich, titled man. Had been willing to forgo love in exchange for security and the other pleasures great wealth would afford her. But Darragh could offer her none of those things.
What if he couldn’t even offer her love?
A chill swept through her.
What if, heaven forbid, she fell in love with him and in the end wound up with nothing, not even his affection? She’d been betrayed by one man. What was to say she might not be betrayed by another? By Darragh?
Her breath shallow in her lungs, she hurried into action. Crossing the room, she closed and locked the door, knowing there wasn’t an instant to lose.
Rigged out for the occasion of his marriage in a formal dark blue tailcoat and pale gray breeches that buttoned with noticeable snugness just below his knees, Darragh stood at the altar and waited for his bride.
His friend Lawrence McGarrett was at his side. Just returned from Dublin, Lawrence had agreed to act as best man—after he’d recovered from his shock at the unexpected news.
“Better hope she’s not like one of those insects that chews off the head of her mate during intercourse,” Lawrence had outrageously advised. “Or you’ll soon be losing yours, and to an English assassin at that.”
Darragh had laughed, clapped his friend on the back and told him not to worry. Still, as he stood here now, he couldn’t help but feel a bit of nervous trepidation. Not at the thought of marrying Jeannette, but in wondering if she would have a last-minute change of heart.
A movement in the vestibule drew his eye. He watched as Jeannette’s twin sister made her way at a measured waddle up the aisle, the picture of Mother Earth in her vivid green maternity dress. The duchess paused long enough to relay word that Jeannette would be ready to proceed any minute. Announcement made, she allowed her husband to help her take a seat on the wooden front pew—her brother-in-law Lord Christopher and her friend Eliza Hammond on either side.
As matron of honor, Violet would be required to rise to her feet again once the bride appeared, ready to act as Jeannette’s attendant. Raeburn, on the other hand, had agreed to serve as father of the bride in the absence of Jeannette’s real father. Darragh understood the duke had been reluctant at first to perform the duty, some mention as to how it might seem awkward after his and Jeannette’s previous association.
Darragh had been stunned, then annoyed, then accepting, when he’d finally learned the details of the scandal that had sent Jeannette here to Ireland. The story had come pouring out of Kit Winter last night over a late glass of fine Irish whiskey.
A nasty twinge of jealousy had risen within Darragh and burned there for a solid five minutes before he’d had the sense to realize what a fool he was acting. ’Twas plain Raeburn doted on his wife, his eyes for her and her alone. Plain as well that Jeannette felt no romantic love for the duke. Particularly considering she’d jilted him at the altar, deceiving everyone by convincing her twin to act as Raeburn’s substitute wife.
Question was, what was Jeannette thinking today?
He wished his family were here to share the day, his three brothers and three sisters. Mary Margaret, two years his junior at six and twenty and the eldest of his sisters, was herself wed and the mother of four. She, above them all, would be particularly hurt to have not been included in the ceremony, since she put great stock in the trappings of ritual and tradition. Well, ’twould give her added reason to throw a ceili once she got over her bruised feelings, a big, noisy Irish party just the thing to set matters right.
Yet even had he been able to get word to them in time, he couldn’t have afforded the risk of having them here. Bad enough depending upon the duke not to reveal his identity without having to worry over one of his six siblings spilling the beans out of the bag—assuming they would have agreed to keep their lips sealed from the first.
He glanced at the Merriweathers, seated straight-backed and slightly disapproving in the pew behind their relations. They were the only others who concerned him, but he didn’t think they realized he had a title, or else Jeannette would likely have known too. When he’d hired on, neither Cuthbert nor his wife had asked about such matters. And since his being an earl had naught to do with his work, the thought had never come to his mind to mention his lineage. To his knowledge, the only thing the Merriweathers knew was that he came from a good family in the West, but not much else. He was glad now that he’d never taken the time to fill in all the details.
He would be teaching his new bride a lesson or two. Lessons she wouldn’t learn living life as the pampered bride of a wealthy earl—at least not immediately.
That would come later.
He tugged at his waistcoat to keep it neat and watched Raeburn disappear into the vestibule to retrieve his sister-in-law and escort her forward. Only a minute or two now and he and Jeannette would begin to speak their vows before the Ang
lican minister hired to perform the ceremony.
A warm prickle tingled suddenly against the back of Darragh’s neck beneath his cravat, spreading over his skin like some peculiar rash. It was a vaguely familiar feeling, one he got every now and again when something untoward was about to occur.
The first time he experienced the sensation had been as a boy just before his younger brother Michael had fallen out a yew tree and broken his left arm in two places. Then another time years later while walking a lonely night street in Dublin. As he’d rounded a corner, he’d found himself set upon by thieves, the prickle issuing a warning only seconds before the attack. An alert that in hindsight had saved him from taking the sharp end of a shiv between his ribs.
So why get the itch now? he wondered. Clearly no one in the church was about to set upon him nor was anyone in danger of falling out of a tree.
He gazed down the aisle toward the wide wooden entrance doors and the stone vestibule beyond. He thought of the antechamber where Jeannette was readying herself, his neck tingling like mad.
A second later Raeburn reappeared at the far end of the aisle, a scowl on his dark patrician brow, Jeannette quite noticeably not on his arm. Moving on instinct, Darragh strode forward, long legs rapidly covering the distance between him and the duke.
All eyes trailed after him.
“What is it?” he demanded the instant he reached Raeburn.
“She’s locked the door and will not come out. I tried to talk to her.”
“And?”
“And she told me to go away. Says she’ll come out when she is ready and not a moment before.”
“Perhaps I ought to have a word with her.”
“It might be better to summon my wife again. Goes against my grain to let those two put their heads together in such a situation, but what harm can come of it? Even if I didn’t have Violet’s promise, it isn’t as if they’re going to concoct any more insane schemes. Violet may be able to make her see reason. Besides, Jeannette will have to emerge from the room eventually. There is only one way out.”
Or was there? Darragh wondered.
The prickle on his neck intensified.
His feet moved before he was aware he was walking, Raeburn left to stare openmouthed in his wake. But rather than heading toward the antechamber where Jeannette had locked herself, he hurried outside. Taking the stone church steps at a quick clip, he stalked out across the grounds. Moist green spears of grass flattened beneath his dress pumps as he let instinct dictate his direction.
Jeannette hung by her waist over the windowsill, slippered feet dangling well above the ground. When she’d climbed out here it had seemed like such a good idea—only a short hop to freedom.
But on closer inspection, the “short” hop had proven to be a lot farther away than she’d originally imagined, looming like a great terrifying chasm, which should she choose to jump would undoubtedly end in a wrenched ankle or worse.
She cringed at the idea. She hated pain and avoided it at all costs. Even something as minor as a paper cut could make her miserable for days.
But she couldn’t afford to remain here indefinitely, not with Adrian on the other side of the antechamber door demanding she let him inside. Either she needed to take her chances and leap to the ground despite the possibility of broken bones, or else hoist herself back inside the room, dust off her skirts and unlock the door to accept her fate.
Assuming she even had the strength to lever herself back inside. Her arm muscles were trembling, aching from the strain of holding herself in place. While her heart beat bird-fast in her chest, the hard-edged stone sill cut uncomfortably into her stomach.
Oh, what to do? she agonized. Meet the terror facing me below? Or meet the one awaiting me inside the church?
She was still debating the conundrum when a large, clearly male hand wrapped around her ankle. Squealing in surprise, she kicked her feet.
The grip tightened.
She squealed again, male hands reaching higher, then settling firmly around her thighs just below her hips.
“Come on, lass. Push off. I’ll catch you.”
She twisted her head sideways and tried to glance down. “O’Brien?”
“None other. Whom else did you imagine would be laying his hands upon you in so familiar a manner?”
“If I had known for certain, I would not have asked.”
“Well, now that we’ve resolved the mystery of my identity, you’d best come down from there. Looks a mite uncomfortable, if you ask me.”
Blast the man, she cursed silently. He’d not only discovered her before she could make good her escape, but had caught her smack dab in the middle of the process. She could only imagine the picture she must present, dangling with her backside prominently exposed out a church window!
Much as she wished she could hoist herself back up and into the antechamber, she hadn’t the ability, leaving her no choice but to let him help her to the ground.
“You are sure you won’t drop me?” she questioned, nerves making her voice pitch high.
“Sure as I can be under the circumstance.”
“That hardly sounds reassuring.”
“Trust me, lass. I’ve got you firmly in hand.”
Yes, she mused—all too aware of the sensation of his big, powerful hands upon her body—she believed he did. Easing herself a tentative inch off the sill, she squeezed her eyes tight and let go. Her stomach did a sickening flip as she plummeted straight down. Then he had her, arms locked with tensile strength around her hips and waist, her back pressed to his chest. A single broad palm ran up and over her frame, pausing momentarily to cup one of her breasts before setting her onto her feet.
Her body tingled, nipples puckering beneath the cloth of her bodice in a way she hoped he didn’t notice.
“You may release me now, sir,” she said when he failed to loosen his hold.
“Aye, but should I?” he murmured into her ear. “Where was it you were off to, a ghrá?”
Spoken in his deep, lyrical voice, the foreign words sounded almost like an endearment. She considered the phrase anew, decided it was more likely a curse. Though he didn’t sound angry. He sounded almost tender, even understanding.
But surely he must be cross. How could he be otherwise, having caught her trying to run off, attempting to jilt him at the altar? She wanted to turn, wishing she could see his eyes to judge his mood, but he held her steady, her back still pressed against his front.
“I…I don’t know,” she confessed with unexpected candor.
“Do you not? Just away, was it, then?”
“Yes, away.”
Gracious, he was right. She’d had no plan, acting solely on instinct, exclusively on fear. If she had been successful in her escape and had managed to flee, where would she have gone? Certainly she could not have returned to her cousins’ house nor to her parents, not if what Violet said was true. Her great-aunt Agatha would no longer take her in either, and as for Violet and Adrian…well, they had made her options quite clear.
When she considered the matter, she had no one. No one but Darragh O’Brien. Her shoulders sagged.
As if sensing her defeat, he turned her gently in his arms. He traced the side of a finger over the curve of her cheek. “Does it pain you so, then, the prospect of being my wife?”
She swallowed, nerves taut inside her throat. “No, but in so many ways you and I are still strangers. What do we really know of each other?”
A forbearing smile lifted his lips. “More than you might suspect, I imagine. Once we’re wed, we’ll have the pleasure of learning each other’s ways, an exercise that will only add spice and adventure to the years that lie ahead.”
“And what if it adds acrimony and regret instead?”
“We’ll have to work hard to make sure it doesn’t.” Stepping back, he offered his hand. “Lady Jeannette Rose Brantford, I know we didn’t come to this in the normal fashion of things, but will you step inside this church and do me the honor of beco
ming my bride?”
She stared at his hand. Strong, steady, resilient. Able to craft and create. Able to take on whatever needed to be done no matter how tough or how hard. A woman could do far worse than to accept the hand of such a man.
She trembled to imagine her future life with him. She trembled to imagine it now without. Accepting, as she never thought she would do, she laid her hand in his and said, “Yes.”
Chapter Fifteen
“We’ll pass the night here then be off for home come morning,” Darragh said, escorting his new bride up the staircase into Lawrence McGarrett’s drawing room.
Jeannette glanced around at the pleasant decor, an arrangement of shield-backed walnut Hepplewhite chairs and matching sofa upholstered in buttery soft tan leather. Flanking the sofa were a pair of inlaid satinwood Pembroke occasional tables. A tall liquor cabinet stood to one side, opposite the wide fireplace. Pastoral prints graced walls that were painted a warm, soothing blue.
She hoped the shade would have a beneficial effect upon her nerves. Needing the distraction, she busied her hands by drawing off her gloves. “And where exactly is your home, other than the West?”
“Our home now,” he corrected her with a tender smile. “Near the banks of the Shannon estuary where the river meets the sea. ’Tis a place of rugged beauty I expect you’ll like.”
“We shall hope,” she murmured softly. Crossing to the sofa, she sank down onto the cushions, finding them surprisingly comfortable. She folded her hands in her lap. “So this is Mr. McGarrett’s house? Your best man, the one with the red hair?”
“That’s the one. I’ve been lodging here while I finished your cousins’ renovations. Lawrence offered to clear out for the night so we could be alone.”
A sensation like the brush of butterfly wings fluttered in her stomach. “Did he? How very generous.”
“That’s Lawrence. Always willing to be of aid to a friend.”
“He seemed rather severe to me.”
At the wedding breakfast the man had been politely civil, but not much else, hardly speaking—at least not to her. He’d been loquacious enough with everyone else, including Kit Winter, whom he’d kept entertained with one outrageous story after another.
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